Battle Brothers: The King's Ransom
by racfwrites
Summary: A mercenary company destroyed and a captain slain. Segemund, Asbjørn, Adlar and Odbart are what's left of the King's Ransom, and none of them are content to see it disentegrate. Based off of a Battle Brothers playthrough.
1. Chapter 1

Segemund couldn't help but think of Asbjørn's dream as he knelt there in the blood soaked grass, the rain drumming off of his surcoat and skullcap. Asbjørn had dreamt of a crown, swallowed whole by a great wolf. That's what Asbjørn had talked of, claiming it may mean disaster for the King's Ransom. Segemund had derided the notion that it was some ill omen, claiming it superstitious bollocks as it so often was with Asbjørn and his ruminations.  
In this moment, as he watched the good captain be driven to his knees, Segemund felt Asbjørn may have been on the money for once.

Segemund tried to call out, but the arrow jutting out of his side robbed his voice of its power as Ransomers and raiders died all about him. One-eye's head was tossed into the air by a hatchet wielding thug as Hoggart the Weasel and his man stood around captain Bernhard, a crude knife held beneath his jaw. To the sides, Asbjørn was dispatching his foes with great swings of his woodcutter's axe, whilst Adlar kept his spear poised, ready to fend off the foe. Odbart had finished cranking his crossbow and levelled it to aim at their assailants, trying to cover all three foes at once. Segemund caught the resigned nod Bernhard gave him before the captain's gullet was opened.

Segemund shut his eyes for a moment as Asbjørn roared in fury. He knew he had to get the men focused. Asbjørn was a berserker when his passions were aroused, and left himself wide open for counterattack. He would charge forward after Hoggart, who may beat him handily, or have him surrounded and cut down like Bernhard. Adlar would bite off more than he could chew, trying to protect Odbart from two men at once. If they tried to kill Hoggart, they'd die.  
They couldn't settle for petty vengeance, much as they'd all like to. Segemund sucked in a breath. Now or never. _Now or never.  
_  
"Asbjørn! Close up!" Segemund bellowed, pushing himself onto his feet before his sword point dug hard into the earth, leaning on the pommel with both hands as the pain speared through his middle.  
Segemund forced himself to lift his gaze to regard the enemy, his teeth grinding together.

"Close up, the lot of you!" Segemund repeated, his eyes on Hoggart. The canny old bandit leader stared back, his smile fading, realising he wasn't facing the scattered remnants of a warband. As soon as he recognised he was in for a fight, he lost all taste for it, as Segemund suspected.  
He gestured at hatchet-man and the knife wielder to finish them off before he quit the field. Segemund watched as Asbjørn withdrew to his side, looming behind Adlar's spear tip. Twice, Adlar rebuked the foe, allowing Odbart to hurriedly loose bolts at close range. A bolt slew the hatchet-man, and in desperation his comrade battered Adlar's spear aside, lunging straight into Asbjørn's oncoming swing.  
The man died on his feet as the axe-head broke into his ribcage, the dagger digging on Asbjørn's white gambeson but doing little else.

The bodies of their friends lay all around them. It didn't feel like a victory.  
Segemund had the three companions set to digging a mass grave whilst he went on ahead to have his wound seen to, telling Adlar to lead the men to Eulenkrug where they would recruit any men they could to shore up their ranks.  
"You going to be alright?" Adlar asked, a look of genuine concern on his beetle brows, as the two men heard the distinct sound of metal cutting wet earth.  
"I should be. If the worst happens, you'll take the lead, won't you?" Segemund said, already staggering away towards the tree line.  
"'Course. See you in Eulenkrug." Adlar called after him before he turned to oversee the work. He was left with the muddy, bloody business of burying the dead.

In the end, the worst did not happen. No second ambush. No direwolves. To Segemund's chagrin, he would live in this pain a little longer.  
At least that nauseating smell of death was replaced with that of fresh pine and greenery.

Segemund followed the cobblestone road through Rustling Thicket, a vast wood that resembled a hook from a hilltop view, and surrounded the settlement of Eulenkrug. As he passed the umpteenth line of foreboding, bristling pine trees, he finally saw the long houses and huts, all roofed with thatch, all huddled around the village's centre, pressed in for protection. He could hear a staccato of axe strokes thudding and cracking into pillars of wood beyond the houses, and he saw a pair of hooded hunters carry a deer between them towards the bloody soil outside the butcher's.

As he got closer, a watchful boy dashed into one of the long houses. Half a minute later, Gunther came out, the door of the house clattering on its hinge. He was a strong man with a tied and scraggly beard of grey. He was the trade master of the settlement, and that title – along with the way gold was embroidered into the hem of his black tunic – had made him one of Segemund's favourite people here. His expression became concerned when he saw Segemund approach alone, looking worse for wear.  
"Trade master." Segemund inclined his head as much as he could, though the aching throb in his side threatened to send him face first onto the ground.  
"You're bleeding red and your skin's white as wool, mercenary." Gunther remarked, gesturing idly to the broken arrow shaft in Segemund's ribs. Before the mercenary captain could retort, Gunther waved him in towards his house, "I have a passable surgeon inside. Come. Let us get your body aright, and after that, you can tell me where Hoggart's head is."  
 _Good,_ Segemund thought to himself, _let me sit down before I fall down._

The three companions, dirty and dishevelled, were not far behind.  
"I need a drink." Asbjørn muttered, already starting towards the huts.  
"I see no tavern. Let's chat with the locals." Adlar said.  
"I'll find a drink." Asbjørn grumbled over his shoulder, his pugnacious face turning to regard Adlar. His eyes glared at him from beneath the red headscarf he wore, before deliberately walking on.  
Adlar didn't stop him, watching the big bruiser in the gambeson approach the huts. He wasn't interested in getting on the wrong side of Asbjørn, maudlin prick though he was.  
"I'd be fucked off too." Odbart murmured. Adlar glanced his way.  
Odbart was fairer, only in so far that his face was plainer than Asbjørn's moody features, his brown hair kept short and parted to the side. His crossbow was slung on the back of his forest-green tunic, a bag of bolts attached to his belt.  
"Why's he fucked off, then?" Adlar asked.  
There was a split-second where Odbart looked surprised before he shrugged. "Bernhard led us soundly enough, and he was popular. Was a shame to see his throat slit."  
Adlar held his gaze for a moment longer before he nodded. "True enough. Think you can find someone desperate enough to leave this place?"  
Odbart nodded with a yawn, seeming as tired as Adlar felt. "Yeah, I reckon so. Didn't know you could find dangerous and boring in the same place."  
"Aye?" Adlar asked.  
The bowman shrugged. "Direwolves like hunting down lumberjacks. No tavern or brothel. Dangerous and boring."  
Adlar smiled at that. "Bit of an oxymoron there."  
"What'd you call me?!" Odbart snarled so loudly and so fiercely a passing villager jerked away from them.  
The two Ransomers laughed and parted ways, with Adlar walking on towards the village's stalls and storage huts, whilst Odbart put his arm around the unfortunate villager who had flinched from him, engaging him in lively conversation about who's who in Eulenkrug.

The majority of the village was so busy hunting or chopping trees, only the destitute and those desperate to leave the place hung around. Made things easy for the mercenaries and their choices for recruitment.  
Asbjørn had encountered a promising recruit when he had been rough-housing with the people on the forest's edge. The challenger had been one of the few lumberjacks that had stood up to him. He had even gone to the length of fetching the tool of his trade. Asbjørn's brows rose, a small smile tugging at his brutish features. "Why've you got that axe, boy?" Asbjørn asked.  
He had flab about his face framed by curling brown hair, peach fuzz on his upper lip, his body clad in a tunic and leggings. He looked curiously young, a boy not yet a man – from the neck upwards, at least.  
The manboy was broad-shouldered, however, and strong, and tall. Taller than Asbjørn himself, as his eyes scanned him.  
"I've a mind to take it to you, browbeater." The boy growled at him. The hatred in Leofric's voice astonished Asbjørn, the acidic tone resonating with him.  
"Is it a woman?" Asbjørn asked.  
"Aye?" The boy said.  
"Or a man? I won't judge." Asbjørn said with a shrug.  
The boy was incredulous.  
"Aye?!" The boy repeated.  
"You low down there on the ladder? Do the other woodsmen beat you? What's got you so tense, lad? You've not known me for a minute and you're looking as though you mean to kill me." Asbjørn chuckled.  
The boy was quiet for a moment, his fingers clutching the pole of the axe a little tighter.  
"I don't like bullies." The boy threw out the clumsy phrase, his voice sullen.  
Asbjørn laughed, raising his hands in surrender as the boy took a step forward. Eventually, the laughter subsided. "Ahhh... what's your name, boy?"  
"Leofric." The boy supplied the answer reluctantly.  
"Leofric… Alright…" Asbjørn smiled, "Do you like hurting people, Leofric?"

The four ransomers reunited, with two more added to their number. Leofric, vouched for by Asbjørn, brooded with them. Odbart had found a man in an apron who claimed some skill with a bow, who went by the name of Ulf. Segemund's eyes were half-lidded as they scrutinised the latter, trying to ignore the dulled ache of his wound's treatment. A red-hot poker had done its work, cauterising the tear in his flesh.  
"He's a bowyer," Odbart explained to Segemund, "brought his own bow and everything."  
Ulf nodded slowly, his eyes looking past Segemund. The captain followed his gaze, spying a pair of locals who were watching them with interest.  
"Friends?" Segemund asked. Ulf had a strong jawline that his trimmed blonde beard emphasised, his hooded eyelids always on the distant locals even as he shook his head.  
"No sir." Ulf murmured in the soft, slow Eastscrub accent that permeated the region.  
"Why?"  
Ulf's gaze turned to Segemund, a tremendous sadness locked behind those hooded eyes. "I sold a bow to a youngin."  
Segemund knew he could have pressed him, but he didn't need to. There was no way a story involving a child with a bow in a fletcher's village would end well. "You can fire a bow as well as you can sell one?"  
"Aye, sir, I can."  
Segemund was sure he could, his keen eye sweeping around the assortment of war-virgins and hard-bitten mercenaries. "Adlar, weapons?"  
Adlar nodded, stepping aside to allow Segemund a view to the cart. Long hafts and heavy axe-heads rested on the lip of one of the boxes.  
"That's a lot of axes. You realise we're after men, not trees?" Odbart asked.  
"They were on the cheap, and look where we are." Adlar replied, lifting his chin to indicate the dense thicket of greenery about them.  
"No shields." Odbart muttered. He was used to sending arrows through the crevices of a shield wall, and knew himself how reassuring it was to have a buckler in close quarters.  
"So don't get shot." Segemund said, taking up one of the two-handers himself, "These things will ruin Hoggart's vagabonds."  
That got a look from the old hands. "Hoggart, still?" Adlar asked.  
"The Trade Master is doing us a solid. Paid us in full for killing Hoggart's men, and is willing to pay us the same again if we kill the Weasel himself. We'll be going north to Seestadt to recruit more men and grab some more arms and armour, whilst Gunther hunts the Weasel for us." Segemund spoke loudly and at length as he walked to the front of the cart and pulled himself atop it, seizing the reins of the donkey that drew it.  
There were no arguments, but for Asbjørn's grumblings.

The King's Ransom came in the night for him. His sentries had roused the rest of the men, and he had stirred them with promises of loot, women and drink. He had expected the Ransomers to be desperate and easily fended off.  
He had been wrong. Hooded revenants swept out of the night, two-handed axes cleaving through shields, hafts and men. Two men had led the charge, two berserkers who clove and stove and beheaded all who fronted them. One was unmistakeably Asbjørn, grimacing as he broke men in two. The other was the tallest man on the battlefield, swinging his axe with practiced ease, as though bloodshed was what he lived for. His men started to shriek about demons in their midst, and by the time he could do anything about it, the demons had found him.  
Hoggart dragged himself down the slope with his remaining hand, the mail byrnie clinking and shifting across the wet grass. He tried to keep the sobbing in his throat down, knowing he couldn't be louder than his men screaming and dying all around him, or the meaty impacts of axes splitting men open as though they were rotten timber. He kept his broken arm close, the shield splintered on the hilltop where he'd made his stand.  
His fears became real as a shape loomed over him. He saw the headscarf, the pitiless look in his assailant's eyes, the woodcutter's axe slick with gore.  
"I have money!" He cried out, shirking back and causing a shooting pain up his arm.  
"Don't care." Asbjørn smiled, his teeth like daggers as he lifted the axe up, preparing to describe a terrible, life-ending arc.  
Hoggart screamed as he dragged the falchion from under his body, slicing upwards as far as he could reach.  
With a _thunk_ , Asbjørn Weaselbane earnt his epithet.

With that, the King's Ransom took to looting the dead. That macabre business and its accompanying aroma of blood and excrement gave Ulf and Leofric pause, whilst Segemund and Adlar set to work with enthusiasm. They relieved the Weasel's men of the few coppers they had, the spears they had held, their boots, belts and knives. Any fingers and necks that did not yield their rings and necklaces easily were severed without ceremony. Ulf's arrows had, against all odds, found one of the wealthier bandits in the face in the pitch-black, leaving his gambeson wholly intact.  
Hoggart's byrnie had been hacked to pieces, along with the rest of him, though the falchion now had a place at Segemund's waist. It took Adlar and Segemund both to restrain Asbjørn from mutilating the corpse any further. They'd have second thoughts about that when they had the hideout cleared.

They had been using an abandoned cottage with a caved in roof as their base of operations. In front of it was a garden, surrounded by a perimeter wall as tall as a man's waist. Untended, the weeds and greenery had begun to match the stone wall for height. The corpse of a man – by Ulf's guess, the owner of the house – hung on the outside of the chimney, twisting in the noose about its neck. The cold had preserved him well enough, though his face had turned blue and black. Asbjørn gingerly cut the man down with a swing of his axe, stepping clear of the corpse as Leofric staggered out of the cottage's entrance and heaved his guts into the garden in front.  
"Boy?" Segemund asked, holding his axe in one hand by the haft as he went to make past him, the smell of decay rebuffing him.  
"You don't want to go in there. The owner's wifeman, what they did to her–" Leofric didn't finish his sentence as his stomach churned, turning to vomit further into the overgrown weeds.  
"Yeah," Segemund replied, scarcely surprised, "Adlar, Asbjørn? Turn the place out. Ulf, Leofric, bring the cart closer."  
As the men set to, Segemund glanced sidelong at Odbart, who stood back with a hand splayed around the arrow shaft in his shoulder.  
"What did I ask you, specifically, to not do?" Segemund asked. He saw the smile appear on the crossbowman's plain face.  
"Not to get shot, sir." Odbart said.  
"'Not to get shot, sir'." Segemund echoed, eliciting a pained chuckle from the bowman, "It wasn't hard. Wasn't complex. Recall myself saying it and all."  
As the captain and his marksman stood back, the company worked. The two veterans were inured to the horrors of war and brigandry, removing the spoils whilst muttering complaints about the smell. Soon enough, the cart was laden with linens, a near depleted cask of beer and various sweet meats.  
With that, they walked their treasures back to Eulenkrug.

Segemund and Adlar met Gunther before the sun rose, and he paid them by the guttering candle light by his desk. Segemund did not bother to count them, feeling he could trust the Trade master.  
"I have another job for you if you're open to it, mercenary," Gunther went on, "I need a statuette of fertility retrieved."  
That made Adlar look up from the coins he was counting, throwing the Trade Master a wide-eyed look. That made Gunther crack a smile.  
"Not for me, I'm afraid. There's a man here who wants to begat a child with his wife. This man is the guild master about the village. I think he could be a good friend to have, for you and me." Gunther admitted.  
"You're honest about your intentions." Segemund pointed out.  
Gunther made a face and a shrug before continuing. "Thieves made off with the hunk of rock, and, though I doubt it has any real power to it, I know it should be returned to its owner. So will you do it? They broke west for Dunkelmark, last my birds heard."  
Segemund nodded his head, giving Gunther a tired smile. "Let's talk coin."

The rest of the King's Ransom were awkwardly gathered in the centre of the huts, using the village's firepit to keep warm as Asbjørn went on with his toast, his drinking horn raised high.  
"…And to Bernhard, Gods rest 'im. 'is wos, 'is, 'is," Asbjørn managed, "a stalwurt shield in the line."  
Asbjørn lurched on his feet, causing Ulf to shuffle down the log he was sitting on.  
"What's more, 'e wos more than just a captain to me," Asbjørn slurred as Odbart walked around the circle towards him, "More than just a comrade. 'E wos, 'e wos-"  
"He was a brother to you, and to us all," Odbart declared as he wrapped his good arm around Asbjørn's shoulder, drink in hand, "So I think it is indeed right we toast to our fallen captain." Odbart raised his own horn, the two novice mercenaries awkwardly imitating him.

"To Bernhard, One-Eye, Rolf, Tylo, Dytwin and Eberlin! May you give the devil hell!" Odbart exclaimed as Asbjørn slipped the embrace, downing his beer before turning from the gathering. The two rookies echoed the sentiment before draining their own cups. Then Adlar was there, shouting and kicking them to their feet. There would be no time for another drink, for the King's Ransom were on the march again!


	2. Chapter 2

"Gods, this is work I was made for!" Leofric declared as he walked with the company, another battlefield of dead and dying men at their backs. The scent of copper coated their axe-heads and the gentle trundle of the cart behind them set the pace as they walked south.

"Have you considered that this work is unbecoming of man, Leofric?" huffed Govan – a monk that was short in stature with a cleft chin, pronounced lips and discerning eyes. The company had lumbered the monk with a heavy axe, and he was huffing before any of the other Ransomers had broken a sweat.

"No? What work is manlier, to kill a warrior on the field of battle and take what's his?" Leofric's tone was waspish as he glanced sidelong at Govan.

"Those men back there were desperate. Robbers, thieves. We are fed and watered, and well equipped-" Govan started.

"Not nearly enough." Segemund grumbled up ahead. Govan inclined his head.

"Of course captain – but the prospect of killing thugs and vagrants is hardly a challenge, and could be viewed as needlessly cruel."

That got a mocking laugh out of Asbjørn Weaselbane, his perpetual sneer glancing sidelong at the monk. "Where do you think you are, priest? The whole damn world is a bitch with bloody claws." That got a conspiratorial chuckle out of Leofric.

Govan persisted. "What if we had offered those men the chance to break bread and take ale with us? You would have six more men in your warband, captain."

"Yeah, six honourless cutpurses. Too dangerous to bring 'em in." Asbjørn retorted, only to feel a spear shaft rap at his shoulder.

"Let him talk." Adlar said. Asbjørn snorted good-naturedly at the gesture. The drinks they'd bought in Dunkelmark and the victories under his belt seemed to have taken the sting of loss from him.

"Would you say- would you say courage is an aspect of manliness, Asbjørn?" Govan asked.

"...Yes?" Asbjørn said, guardedly.

"And yet courage requires danger to be proven. To trust a man so desperate and so despondent is dangerous, is it not? So I put to you, there is courage in offering such a man your hand, rather than your axe, and to have him add his strength to yours – feeble though it is." Govan admitted.

Leofric went quiet, his boyish face pensive, whilst Asbjørn spat on the dusty road as they walked, bored with the discussion on ethics and personal values. Odbart noticed that Ulf was flagging, same as he had during the last engagement. He took Ulf's bow from him, leaving the breathless bowyer perplexed until he was handed the crossbow.  
"Less intensive, once you're in position." Odbart explained. The panting bowyer thanked him with a courteous nod.

"The contract was to kill every thief who had a hand in taking the idol, however." Segemund finally spoke up.

"Aha! Guess we were right to slaughter them all, aye priest? Can't argue with coin!" Asbjørn shouted, goading him. Govan threw him a wink and a smile, which only perplexed Weaselbane.

"So where are those thieves?" Odbart said. The King's Ransom had hacked their way through two groups of such criminals, and there had been no idol. Perhaps it was just coincidence that Dunkelmark attracted such villainy.

Segemund didn't have an answer, his eyes catching the sight of a man sitting dejectedly on the side of the road.

"You tell me, Odbart. Better yet, get that fella to tell you." Segemund said, pointing a gloved hand to the traveller.

"Want I should...?" Asbjørn let the question hang as Odbart fell out of line and jogged past the group, stooping low to speak with him.

"If I wanted him shitting teeth, I would ask you." Segemund said airily, mentally tacking on, _I've seen how you rage._ He watched Odbart slip silver into the man's hand before jogging back to them. He knew where the thieves were.

They hadn't gone far, trekking to the south-west beyond the road, heading over the Rich Meadows towards the forest. They had stopped to take a breather in the field.  
Last mistake. If they'd made the treeline before stopping, they would at least have cover, and have staggered the Ransomer's formation. The band of desperadoes watched them from a distance, unsheathing their swords and hefting their flails and axes.  
"Skirmishers – that's you, Ulf – go pelt the big ones, we'll be right behind you. Adlar, set the pace."  
Ulf and Odbart started forward as Adlar called out the order to advance at the walk. The two bowmen did a fine job, wounding two of their quarry before killing a third who had been swinging a wooden flail about his head.

 _One less concussion,_ Segemund thought with a smile as their lines met. He gave his best roar as he ducked the tree branch swung at him, the edge of Hoggart's falchion opening his assailant's belly. The thief dropped his weapon, clutching at his middle as Segemund reversed his sword, swinging desperately up and catching the thief across the neck. Before he could think, he heard Asbjørn – the man next to him – bellow in pain and rage, staggering back. Before Segemund could look, two more were on him. His head recoiled back as he caught a blow on his brow, feeling panic surge into him as something bit into his ankle boot. He stabbed blindly in a two-handed grip, satisfied to hear a gurgle before he brought the falchion back in a low guard, blinking furiously. He saw the man he'd killed, thrashing on the ground, trying to keep the blood from bubbling out of his throat as the other narrowly missed Segemund's eyes with the hatchet.

Segemund punished him, the falchion's point slipping between the fourth and fifth rib. The man, mortally wounded and unmanned by the death of his comrades, turned to run, only to be impaled by Adlar's spear. The rest were running now.  
It was over far too quickly for Segemund. The adrenal rush, the way time seemed to slow as limbs, weapons and bodies collided, every bruise and cut and killing blow sticking in his mind. The rest of the thieves didn't get far, laid low by the arrows and bolts of Odbart and Ulf. He quickly looked over his leg. He was fine.  
Others hadn't been so lucky.

Asbjørn's face was one of furious agony as Adlar and Odbart lifted him onto the cart. "That fucker. That _fucker_!" He cursed. Govan had made a fine job of salving and bandaging up Asbjørn's calf. A hatchet had bit into it, pulling strands of muscle free from the bloodied skin.  
"Tell me the fucker died badly." Asbjørn huffed, grimacing as he stared into the clear sky.  
"Ran him through myself." Adlar counselled him, glancing up at Govan, giving the monk an appreciative nod for his work.  
"Good. Good fucking man." Asbjørn said with gusto, resting his head on the spare tunics kept in the cart, shutting his eyes.

* * *

They began to march back towards Eulenkrug, walking the Dunkel road through the night. Every time the cart hit a dip, a hole or a pebble in the road it would elicit a yowl of pain from the surly mercenary trying to sleep in the cart, followed by a string of curses questioning the sexuality, heritage, intelligence and liberal inbreeding of driver, horse and anyone within earshot.

"Asbjørn, all of you? It's come to my attention that no one around these parts know who we are." Segemund spoke loudly.  
The wheels trundled, but no-one spoke. Someone spat in the darkness.

"When we reach Eulenkrug, we're going to behave. We've done a lot for 'em to be thankful for, now let's pour on the good manners."

"Why, captain?" Leofric asked, "They've done nought but give you their money and sit on their arses."

Segemund was surprised it was Leofric to say that. They spoke of his home village; but then, those leaving their home often had little love lost there. "We need to pay less for what we need and keep the work coming.  
So don't forget to smile. We're heroes, and heroes are entitled to haggle."

In Eulenkrug, they were given a warm welcome, and as Segemund ordered, they were the perfect guests.  
Through Gunther, Segemund was introduced to Olaf, the rugged and ragged-robed guild master of the village. Surprisingly, it was Asbjørn who helped him win favour with the suspecting and eclectic guild master – whenever Olaf would speak in length of the statuette's power or the magic on the winds or some other superstitious nonsense, it was always Asbjørn asking stupid, but endearing questions. Olaf, delighted to find a believer in his presence, would be far too distracted to notice Segemund and Gunther sharing a look of long suffering camaraderie before going on to share wine. Adlar, freed from his position as Segemund's second, sat around the firepit of the village with the rest of the warband, this time joined by the inhabitants of the village, all of them jubilant, all of them amiable and keen to hear about how Hoggart the Weasel's sword wound up on the captain's belt. Odbart kept an eye on Ulf, who warily sipped at his mead, surrounded by men and women who disliked him for what happened yet loved him for recent deeds.  
Leofric stood amongst the trees, one hand splayed on the bark of a sturdy pine. He leant his forehead against it, whispered a question, and for a long minute appeared to listen. Dissatisfied, he would walk on to the next tree, repeating the process.  
Finally, Govan found himself staggering drunkenly off towards one of the huts, the hand of a fletcher's daughter hand in his.

The morning was not kind to the King's Ransom. Adlar, Odbart and Segemund awoke with hangovers, whilst Govan was chased out into the woods in a state of undress by an enraged father with a stick. Leofric returned from the woods with dark rings around his eyes in time for the captain to hand out a variety of tasks and odd jobs. Leofric and Asbjørn were charged with helping the lumberjacks in their toil, whilst Ulf and Govan were seconded once more to the fletcher's store – after the monk had finished profusely apologising. Finally, Odbart and Adlar were given free rein to smooth relations further with the village, with Odbart joining hunters on their expeditions whilst Adlar indulged a handful of youths in stories of the warband's exploits.

"If you ever need a place to rest easy, Eulenkrug'll welcome its saviours back anytime." Gunther promised, clasping Segemund's hand with his.

* * *

Yet more days passed as the company travelled south, passing the Dunkel's – the twin towns of Dunkelmark and Dunkelwald – before coming through a stretch of forest to fog-shrouded Blankhoom, a large town by the river. Coin had been spent, and now the King's Ransom were garbed adequately for skirmishes – every man had a surcoat to his name, leather boots inlaid with fur, aketon caps and leather hoods. Several men wore stilettos at their waists, and the two skirmishers had short swords belted for close work.  
Well armed, conspicuous and full of vital enthusiasm, they were an element entirely at odds with Blankhoom itself. The town was squalid, with platformed buildings and piers creaking unevenly on rotting timbers. There were tracks and furrows of mud instead of roads, and the townsfolk were insular and wary. _A far cry from Eulenkrug_ , Segemund thought to himself, _unfriendly locals, ragged buildings, and a wonderful vista of the marshes to hang yourself by.  
_ "Ah, by the world horse! A tavern!" Asbjørn cried out, eliciting exultant shouts from Leofric and Ulf.

"Sir? Got a promising man for the company." Adlar explained, gently leading Segemund away from the tavern, where the majority of the Ransom had been piling into.  
"Gilgen here is a historian. Writes things down. You need an accountant, right?" Adlar asked, showing him to the narrow-faced, gaunt man. His feathered hat was already in his hands, bowing his head as Segemund looked him up and down.  
"What's this about really?" He asked his second.  
"It'd be nice to have someone to record our names and deeds, whatever happens," Adlar responded quietly, "Plus, he's mad keen."

That got Segemund thinking, pursing his lips before nodding his head. "Reasonable. Can you fight, Gilgen?" The captain asked.

"I can read, sir. Read when it's time to commit during a wider battle. Quick to learn, too!" Gilgen responded quickly, his eyes looking up from his bowed position. Segemund waved him up.

"Well, Gilgen," The captain said, "Your first job as the company's scribe is to tell me who around here needs work done."

Gilgen did his job well, leading Segemund and Adlar both to grey old man by the name of Gunnar, clad in the fur-trimmed cloak, gold chains and fine clothing only a well-off guild master could afford.

"There's an old graveyard to the south west, beyond the marsh that borders our harbour," Gunnar growled as he turned to the window, "and our loved ones are disturbed. Grave robbers have been upheaving our dearly departed for what worldly goods have been buried with them."

Segemund lowered his head, his eyes watching the old man as he looked out at the wild reeds beyond his ghostly, grey town. "So you want the King's Ransom to go in, apprehend them?"

Gunnar rounded on the captain, his teeth bared, looking to all the world like a wounded animal. "No, I want them dead, all of them! Twenty pieces for every scalp, by god!"

Segemund didn't bother to haggle the price. He preferred to rely on people's generosity – and even had he been hurting for coin, Gunnar did not seem mentally sound. He said as much to Adlar and Gilgen as they trooped down the stairs of the guild hall.

"His wife's grave was one of those turned out." Gilgen explained.  
"Ah." Segemund and Adlar said as one, stepping out onto the muddy street. As they went back to their cart, the townsmen continued to act unusually. When they thought themselves unwatched, Segemund noted, their eyes looked haunted, hunted, everywhere at once. When they caught him watching, they'd refuse to meet his gaze, acting as though nothing were wrong. He asked Gilgen about this behaviour, his gaze sweeping over the cowed populace.

"A gravedigger by the name of Jan started the rumour. Poor fellow went quite mad, speaking of sounds, voices from the graveyard. He claimed to see 'half-men' in the mists, not dwarves, or short fellows like your Govan, but… incomplete. Missing parts of them. He left town in a rave, but people talk frequently of sightings of these half-men in Bleak Forest." Gilgen explained at length.

"There any truth in the rumour?" Segemund asked, his almond eyes directed at him now. Gilgen paused beneath his impassive gaze, licking his lower lip. He knew that every word of his would be weighed.

"Have… Have you ever seen Nachzehrer, in your travels? corpse-cannibals? Dead-eaters? Grave-lopers?" Gilgen asked, "It has a grey-blue complexion, clammy looking, claws, pupil less eyes-"

"Only one. Adlar and Dytwin, gods rest him, stuck it down with their spears and we finished it off." Segemund interrupted.

"Right, good – I have read many an account of these creatures. They allegedly emerge from those who commit the sin of suicide, who go on to devour the corpse of its… wearer, before setting its sights on the living. Now, if such awful and unnatural beasts as these apparently exist in our world, I wouldn't – I wouldn't discount the thought of direr things being out there."

* * *

They set off to the west, following the guild master's directions, keeping to the road as long as they could before they met the treeline of Bleak Forest. Just before its gloomy, green-grey pines and firs, the King's Ransom set up camp. The greenery on the branches gave the moonlight scant chance to filter through.  
"No drinking tonight. Give Asbjørn and Gilgen spears. Teach them the basics." Segemund told Adlar.

"You think it's half-men? Could just be bandits wearing pelts." Adlar replied as he obeyed, pulling the warped polearms from the tattered hemp bag in the cart.  
"Maybe. If they're human, they can throw 'em down and use what they're accustomed to. Besides, an extra spear never killed anyone." Segemund said.

"Uhuh." Adlar laughed as he turned from the cart, walking to where Asbjørn sat on a fallen oak, extoling his prowess in battle in front of Gilgen, who sat with a company sword across his thighs as the other mercenaries pitched tents on the damp ground.

"You always been like this?"  
Ulf went to turn.

"No, keep watching." Odbart warned.

Ulf froze, before resuming his vigil. "Been like what?"  
Odbart let out an explosive gasp and Ulf turned on him, wide eyed, expecting to see his ankle twisted in the roots or an arrow jutting out of his ribs. Odbart wheezed hoarsely, and Ulf's hooded eyes narrowed as he realised he was being mocked.

"Since I was a boy," He replied evenly, his eyes sliding off of Odbart to search the dark woods for movement, "You gonna tell 'em?"

He heard grass rustle behind him. "Why'd I do that?" Odbart asked. The bowyer didn't reply immediately.

"Having shortness of breath? Doesn't seem like it'd marry well to this life." Ulf admitted.

"Are you having fun?" Odbart asked.  
Ulf glanced back over his shoulder at the veteran, throwing him a look that said 'what do you think?'.

"This is preferable, to life in Eulenkrug?" Odbart tried.

"It's the only choice I have." Ulf replied.

"Then I don't have to say nought, do I? Just don't let down our side." Odbart said, throwing Ulf a blithe smile.  
Ulf gave him a nod before tacking on a muted 'cheers', before he returned his gaze to the oppressive crowd of trees.

"Sing out if you see anything." Odbart told him before he ventured back towards the camp, where Govan had managed to get a fire going.

* * *

Three hours later, Ulf sang.

"Foemen!" He bellowed as he drew an arrow from his quiver, nocking and firing in haste. Against all odds, his arrow flew straight and true through the narrow gaps between the trees, penetrating the gloom and rocking the head of the man in the mist.  
What happened next took Ulf's breath away.  
The wounded man did not slump to the ground or clutch at the arrow. It walked – no, staggered – onwards towards him, a ghostly moan rolling out of its lips as its green, maggot-ridden head lolled, sightless eyes locking on his. It sounded to all the world like a battered soul waking from a nightmare. It grew closer, clad in the hose and shirt of peasantry, soiled and bloodied. Fully half of his middle was missing, the stench of rotten meat, sickly sweetness and sulphur made Ulf recoil.  
 _Halfmen. The devils own.  
_  
"Oh, gods above." Ulf whimpered, his hooded eyes flitting as more of the halfmen staggered out from behind the trees and from beyond the mists. He counted more than ten. Some of them loosely held clubs, hatchets, swords. Ulf scrabbled for another arrow, willing himself to act fast, act right...

"No prisoners!" Ulf almost jumped out of his skin when he heard Segemund roar behind him, his falchion in the air, a dull, glinting beacon in the darkness.

"Grim work today, ransomers. Form a schiltrom," Adlar seconded, the spear twirling in his toying grip as he got in front of Ulf, preparing to fend off the foe, "Ulf, keep firing. Aim for their legs."

Ulf obeyed, drawing the bow as the tall Leofric moved around him, the axe he was so fond of held in both hands. By now, Ulf was familiar with Asbjørn's foul language, and it was tremendously reassuring to hear the surly old bastard bemoan the ignominy of 'having to stand in line'. Govan was nearby, his long face impassive, his mouth moving subtly and silently. Finally, there was Gilgen the historian, the spear wavering in hand. With such company around him, Ulf did not feel so afraid.  
A crossbow cracked to his left. He saw a smudge of darkness leap out to strike one of the half-men in the knee cap. Odbart's bolt split it, pitching the dead man onto its front. It did not cry out in pain. It only groaned hungrily as it crawled forward, overtaken by its fellows.  
 _Loose, you fool._  
Ulf fired an arrow. Then another, and another. He know he scored a hit on a foe, white feathers sticking out of a thigh before the lines met.  
had seen how the King's Ransom had counter-charged the thieves days ago. Even from a distance, Ulf had winced as steel clanged together, bone crunched, flesh tore and split and men screamed for their mothers, their wives and daughters. It had been havoc for both sides, shunting, grappling, stabbing and hacking.  
This was different. It was more reserved and disciplined, but no less intense, no less intimate. The undead shambled onto their waiting spears and shields, their teeth gnawing at the paint, groping at the wood. Adlar and Gilgen would thrust and shunt them back, allowing Segemund's falchion to swing down on necks, legs and bodies, whilst Leofric swung his treehewer in terrific, headsplitting arcs. Asbjørn allowed one past his spearpoint with a curse, falling to the ground with a cry as he kept the man-monster's gnashing teeth away from him with his hands-  
Until one of Asbjørn his fingers entered the thing's mouth, and Weaselbane screamed.

"Swords!" He heard Odbart cry, and Ulf hurried to obey, rushing to poor Asbjørn. Not knowing what else to do, he stabbed down into the monster's lower back as it writhed atop his beleaguered comrade. Gilgen, who had answered the scream, was there too, following Ulf's lead and stabbing downward, but they only kept the thing there – to Asbjørn's dismay.  
Then Odbart was there, barring the blade across the thing's face, a hand on the flat. He pushed upwards, forcing the half-man off of Asbjørn. Far too quickly, the thing's hands were on Odbart's wrists, its teeth biting on the sword slowly, mutilating its own gums, prying rotting teeth out of its head.  
Ulf levered the tip of his sword between the thing's teeth and thrusted upwards, punching through the roof it its mouth. It went still.  
"Well done." Odbart said as Ulf's blood turned to ice. Ulf saw Segemund, Leofric and Govan fending off an assailant each, but that left far too many unaccounted for -  
And that's when he saw Adlar. His feet firmly planted and his shield raised, he was holding the tide of the undead back single-handedly with a storm of fending strikes. Ulf watched as Adlar moved, stupefied. It was as if Adlar's weapon could be everywhere at once, slapping, stabbing, slicing and jabbing.  
The bowyer's stomach lurched when the spear shaft splintered under a particularly forceful thrust.

"Oh, shit! With me!" Odbart saw the same thing too and was already moving.  
Ulf ran after him, despite the whistling breath in his narrowing throat.

* * *

The dark forest ceiling spun in Ulf's failing vision.  
"Breathe, bowyer." Asbjørn said, his rugged features leaning in.

"Asbjørn, don't be a fucking prick, give him some space!" Odbart snarled.

"What? He needs to, don't he?" Asbjørn muttered, affronted.

"What's wrong with him, 'Bart?" that was Segemund's voice, stern and cold.

"Shortness of breath. Leaping lung, I think."

"Asthma." Govan the monk gave the disease its true name before his head disappeared from Ulf's sight as Odbart worked to help Ulf out of his surcoat, pulling it over his head.

"Is he gonna die?" Leofric's voice wavered.  
The silence was not reassuring.

"Is he?!" Leofric repeated.

"Captain?" Adlar's pronounced brow lifted to regard Segemund's.  
Ulf could hear something rustling some feet away. His eyes widened.

"Govan's fucked off, don't worry about him." Odbart's plain, young features reminded Ulf of a child's face. It made him trustworthy. Despite the way his lungs spasmed, he felt like he was in good hands.

"Should we get him on the cart?" Adlar pressed Segemund.

"Is there anything I can do? I can move him." Gilgen chimed in.  
"Yeah, write him better." Asbjørn shot back.

Segemund was curiously silent, his mouth a thin line across his heart shaped face.  
"Boss, I can-" Ulf's voice was high and quiet, the air he needed trying to fight through the mucus filling his airways.

"Captain." Adlar insisted.

"We can't move him, can we?" Segemund asked Odbart.

"I don't know. I don't know." Odbart muttered.  
Another surge of activity in the bushes. Ulf heard more rustling as someone trampled to and from them. He heard stone grinding on stone.

"I don't want to die." Ulf wheezed.

"You're not going to die." Odbart sighed.

"Move, hold him," Govan shouldered his way back into the scrum, holding a small stone mortar and pestle, the latter tallowed in a wet green mulch, "Ulf, you're going to have to drink this, alright? I know it doesn't make sense, but do drink this. Far down as you can, the deeper, the better."  
In the presence of a man who appeared to know what he was doing, the other mercenaries hastened to accommodate the monk.  
It smelt horrendous.

"Don't back out, it's queenswood and water, it'll soothe your inner pathways and help dissolve the phlegm."  
It tasted as good as it smelt, bitter and acidic – but only for a moment as he lost feeling as Ulf lost feeling in his mouth.

"You've poisoned him!" Leofric cried out as Ulf's head tilted back further, his throat spasming on the drink.

"Alright, alright," Govan murmured, ignoring Leofric, "He's going to be okay, put him on his side – smack him on the back, get it out of his system now?"  
Asbjørn industriously thumped Ulf's back, bruising the bowyer as he lay there retching.  
Eventually, Ulf relaxed. It was an ugly sound now, like a man snoring, but he was breathing.

" _Now,_ would be a good time to get him onto the cart." Govan suggested as Ulf slipped away into unconsciousness.


End file.
